Sharp Dressed Woman
by Weavillain
Summary: Luna's left at the mercy of Sam's request. Or rather, she's left at the mercy of her OWN restlessness. Either way, the fact that Sam wants her opinion of her new look is not going to be an easy hill to climb.


Luna Loud has had her share of nerve-wrecking, gut-twisting, nail-biting (it's a bad habit that she _still_ needs to curb) experiences, and most of them center around her passion. As much as she often exudes confidence and unbridled passion when she's bringing a house of two thousand seats down with her peerless flair, she's not proud enough to admit that despite her years of experience, performing in front of large crowds can still give her the heebie-jeebies if she's susceptible enough to self-doubt.

But nothing—not even the prospect of a stage dive off of Mount Everest—has gotten her skin as sweaty, nerves as jittery, and heart as fluttery as the thought of what's about to arrive to her front door any minute now on this late Saturday afternoon. Most of her family have gone out of the house for the day, meaning that no one's come around to see her twisting and shaking on the couch—with her teeth clamping her bottom lip and her fingers nervously drumming her knees—as if she's trying to get the moves down to the world's most complex potty dance.

It's the only dignity she's given through her tribulation, but she knows that it's not going to be enough to ward off the humiliation of what's to come when Sam Sharp, close friend and apple of her eye, shows up.

Of course, a friendship would be impossible if all it took to make Luna spaz out was spending some time with her fellow rocker ( _as_ _friends_ , she's always quick to remind herself before naive hope for a better outcome can rise). Thankfully, she can manage a casual jam sesh or two without making a fool of herself, which is exactly what Sam had proposed that they do about two hours ago over the phone.

The thing that's making Luna's stomach tie itself in knots, however, was what came _before_ that. Apparently, Sam thought it'd be a great idea to update her look with a new set of threads (as if she wasn't drop-dead gorgeous already). Rather than ask just about anyone else on the planet what she thought of it—someone with the mettle to _not_ melt in a twitchy puddle just by thinking about it—she found it best to ask her if she could give her honest opinion on her ensemble. Luna thought nothing of it when she agreed, but just like her little brother after initiating worst of his schemes, the realization of imminent disaster only became apparent after she had already dug her grave.

The problem with her acceptance to Sam's proposal was twofold; it permits her to gauge Sam's beauty openly (something she wasn't sure she could pull off without leering and/or stammering like a drunken fool) _and_ it exposes her to the danger of saying something that could offend her. Even without a hint of what's in store, Luna knows that Sam's going to a knockout. The problem, that makes each passing second a torturous eternity, is her inability to properly gauge _how_ vigorously she should convey that.

What if her praise came on too strong? What if it didn't come on strong _enough_? No matter how she muses over this conundrum, she can't get no satisfaction with the various degrees of flattery that come to mind.

But no sooner can her fingers dance across her knees in an excited flurry again, the sound of door knocking stiffens her like a piece of dry driftwood. As far as she's concerned, it's Sam, even if it _could_ be one of her siblings (after all, not all of them owned house keys).

Her motor neurons fire on all cylinders and force her off the couch when the knocking sounds off again—the thought of a peeved, impatient Sam wards the stasis off. It's a miracle that she doesn't trip over her feet as she scrambles to the door with the ferocity of a scorned middle linebacker, but the grace of God enables her to get there in record time and grasp the doorknob.

Luna gulps and plasters on a shaky smile, hoping that opening the door and seeing Sam won't make her trembling lips shake even more. She wastes no further time questioning herself and with a breath hitched in her chest, she unlocks the door and swings it back.

In an instant, the light of the shining Sun peaks through the clouds in a beam, announcing the heavenly arrival of the angel that's on her doorstep as it illuminates her already luminous presence. The moisture in Luna's mouth evaporates, a mercy that frees her of the embarrassment of her agape mouth allowing drool to dribble out. Otherwise, the telltale signs of her awe—her widened eyes and scorching blush—are left to be perceived in all their indignant "glory".

But really, what _else_ was she supposed to do when Sam Sharp was looking like...like _this_?

The stripe of teal in her hair is absent, replaced by a fiery red streak that contrasts beautifully with her soft, pale blonde locks.

Instead of her logo-adorned white top, a short-sleeved black shirt—with a white lightning bolt patched over the chest area—hugs her torso. Luna's heart skips two beats when her gaze lingers at the slight sliver of skin underneath the shirt's hem—she tears her eyes away before her lingering can be called out on.

Gone are her ripped, burgundy-colored jeans. Now, a pair of maroon pants—fastened with a white belt—frame her slender legs. A pair of white shoes finish off the flawlessly fetching combination.

"'Sup, Luna?" Sam asks with a smile, setting her guitar case down as looks back at her friend, seemingly unaware of the effect her new appearance has on her. "So, uh, what'd you think of my new look?"

Her addled brain snaps out of its reverie, but Luna's still not at the point where she can form a complete sentence. "I-I...w-well, uh, I th-think that−"

Sam shakes her head. "You know what? Forget about it for now. You wanna grab your axe so we can bounce?"

Luna agrees without hesitation, nodding harder than she's ever done when she's in one of her headbanging moods. "'Kay!"

She darts away up the stairs, hoping that Sam chalks up her speediness to her simply respecting her wishes as fast as she could. Truthfully, she needs a few minutes to compose herself before coming back down. Since Sam is still expecting an answer, she knows that she's not out of the woods just yet.

* * *

When Luna finally disappears from sight, Sam believes it's safe enough to grin in triumph and clench her fist in victory as she celebrates her success in her head. She could've been cursed with half the wit of Inspector Clouseau yet still aware of the fact that Luna Loud was checking her out just now.

She had been looking for words, but quickly found that they would've failed to satisfy her as much as what Luna had already done. The sight of her flushed face gazing at her with rapt attention and the sound of her cute babbling don't come close to being as pleasing as a confession of love, but Sam hopes that her spellbound reaction was the foundation of such a possibility.

For now, she's content with the knowledge that her last trip to the clothing store was the best fifty-six dollars and seventy-three cents she's ever spent.


End file.
